Too Cold
by xlostalongtheway
Summary: "Belle?" he whispers. He can barely see her in the darkness, but he'd know that perfume anywhere. "Can I come inside?" she asks. Her voice is raspy and she sounds like she's been crying. "It's cold." Inspired by Ed Sheeran's "The A Team".


**Summary: **"Belle?" he whispers. He can barely see her in the darkness, but he'd know that perfume anywhere. "Can I come inside?" she asks. Her voice is raspy and she sounds like she's been crying. "It's cold."

**Inspired by Ed Sheeran's _The A Team_. Extremely angsty and gives Belle's Storybrooke story a complete rewrite. Also, I'm using the name _Gabriella _from my story, _Over the Hills and Far Away_. It appropriate, since it's about their counterparts, technically. Just be advised that this story and _Over the Hills _are in no way related.**

** Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon a Time, nor do I own _The A Team_.**

* * *

**_Too Cold_**

_The worst things in life come free to us; cause we're just under the upper hand, and go mad for a couple of grams. And she don't want to go outside tonight… and in a pipe she flies to the Motherland; or sells love to another man. It's too cold outside for angels to fly… angels to fly. _[Ed Sheeran, "The A Team"]

* * *

Ever since Emma Swan came to town, he's been living two lives.

One, as the conniving, heartless Mr. Gold as he roams the town searching for overdue payments and unsuspecting townspeople to victimize.

And another, as Rumpelstiltskin, holed up in his pink, two-story Victorian home, reliving memories that should've stayed lost.

* * *

It's funny, Gabriella thinks, that no one notices the clock tower. It's the closest thing to _historic _that Storybrooke has, and no one gives two shits about it. Not even the idiots who run town hall. They don't even care enough to fix the damn thing.

Gabbe is the only one who really cares. The only one who really looks. She notices when eight-fifteen turns into eight-sixteen, then eight-seventeen, then eighteen, then nineteen, then twenty. She notices, and she smiles, because maybe that means things are finally changing. Maybe her life can finally change.

Maybe, but not likely.

* * *

He doesn't shuffle through the memories Regina had so _generously _bestowed upon him. They're false, and he needn't know anything about the life this fake man with his fake name and his fake business ventures went about his life. He just needed to know enough to keep up the façade, at least until the curse broke.

He doesn't need to know that once upon a time, there was a girl. A girl named Gabbe. She was the florist's daughter. She was bright and vibrant and young and beautiful. She'd worked for him, once upon a time. She'd worked for him, and she'd fallen for him, and he'd pushed her away and claimed it was nothing more than an infatuation.

Her father hadn't thought so. Her father had kicked her out. Her father wanted nothing to do with her. She became a shadow after that, a nameless, faceless flicker of a once-roaring fire. And Mr. Gold hated it—he'd wanted to do something for her, to take her back in, to swallow his pride and turn to her with arms outstretched. But he didn't.

Because Mr. Gold is a coward.

He's just like Rumpelstiltskin in that regard.

* * *

He sees her one day, on the street. She's in the sketchier part of town, a part that could be compared to the Dark Forests in their old world. She's leaned up against a building, in a miniskirt and a coat that's three sizes too big. Her head is down, her curls are limp, and her eyes are cold as she stares at her feet. Her fingers are clad in a pair of ripped, black gloves.

She looks broken.

She looks up when she feels his eyes on her, and her own icy blues widen. She straightens and she tries to stand tall (a very hard task, when the weight of the world is pressing down on you) but he can see it in her eyes. She's still broken, but she's tried (and failed) to glue herself back together in time.

"Mr. Gold," she says, her voice low and raspy, when he slows his car down beside her. She's five feet away, but he can still smell her perfume.

Roses and rain. Fitting.

"Miss French," he greets, not sure what to make of this situation. This is Gabriella in Belle's body. And while Rumpelstiltskin feels a maddening sense of relief inside of him (she's not dead, she's alive, she's here) Mr. Gold feels only guilt. Because this is the girl he loved, the girl he shunned away, and maybe if he'd just said what he wanted to that night, she wouldn't be here. She'd be living with him, in his home, closer to the Belle from another life.

But Mr. Gold is a coward.

So instead, he bites his tongue on all the words Rumpelstiltskin is begging him to say, and he drives away. He sneaks a glance at the rearview mirror as he makes his way back home.

She's crying.

* * *

The madness comes when she doesn't expect it to.

It slams into her when the moment is just right—when someone says something that seems or sounds familiar. Like déjà vu, sort of, but twice as powerful and it usually leaves her staggering. Not this time. This time, she's looking right at Mr. Gold as it happens, and other than the tears that sting her eyes, there is no outward display of her distress.

She doesn't even know why she's acting this way. All she knows is that it's cold. So very cold, and she can feel her heart aching in her chest. _How could you do that? _The girl she used to be is wailing, crying, screaming for an explanation of some kind. _How could you do that?_

_How could you leave me out in the cold?_

* * *

No one cares about her side of town.

She's like the clock tower in that regard.

Nobody really cares.

She drinks too much one night. Her job is disgusting, but it pays the bills, and the only way she ever really feels _clean _is when she scrubs her body down from head to toe before drowning her sorrows in tequila. It helps her forget what she does, every day, with slimy, despicable men who know they have wives and children on the other side of town.

She drinks. And drinks. And drinks. Drinks so much she forgets to wait until her hair's dry to leave the house—she just throws on whatever's clean (a t-shirt and a coat and a pair of ripped jeans) and pulls on her Converse and she leaves.

She doesn't know where she's going.

* * *

It's raining.

Freezing, fat droplets of water fall from the sky. It's nearly two o'clock in the morning, and the pitter-pat of the raindrops are like a distant lullaby to Gold.

The lullaby stops when he hears someone pounding at his front door. He has half a mind to forget whoever it is, to just leave it be, because it's two AM and ripping someone's head off at such an ungodly hour just doesn't sound pleasant, for either of the participants. But when the pounding doesn't subside after five-ish minutes of trying to ignore, he curses and gets up, the irritation in his system nearly dulling the pain in his leg.

He grabs his cane and limps downstairs, yelling, "I'm coming!" over the now insistent banging.

He swings open the door, ready to scream, but the smell of roses and rain it his nose before he can think about it. "Belle?" he whispers. He curses inwardly for the use of her true name; she's Gabriella here, and he can't seem to remember that. She'll always be Belle to him.

He can barely see her in the darkness, but he'd know that perfume anywhere. "Can I come inside?" she asks. Her voice is raspy and she sounds like she's been crying. "It's cold." She doesn't acknowledge his slip-up.

He doesn't want to, mostly because he's still a coward, but Rumpelstiltskin has been waiting for this forever. He moves aside, and she shuffles in, drenched from head to toe. _Dry house, wet clothes, _he thinks, lyrics from a song only the memories tell him he's ever heard.

He shows her to the living room, lets her sit on the couch, and he doesn't care that rainwater is seeping into the upholstery. This is something he should've done a long time ago. Both Mr. Gold and Rumpelstiltskin. Because the gods know, if he'd never cast her away in either world, she might've been his. They couldn't have kissed the world before, but they could still be together, in every other way that counted.

Maybe if he'd just _explained_…

But there would be time for explanations later. The curse was weakening by the day.

And at least now, they were on speaking terms.

Somewhat, anyway.

"I'm sorry," she stammers, her teeth chattering from the cold. "I shouldn't have bothered you. It's so late. I just wanted—" she broke away. She wasn't sure what she wanted. "I didn't want to be alone, I guess. It's so cold."

"Yeah," he says, because he's really not sure what to say to that. She's tired and cold and incoherent, and he's surprised she can form any words with the way she's shivering. "We should—ah, get you out of those clothes. There's a guest bedroom upstairs. I'll get you something dry to wear—" he turns to leave, but she grabs his wrist with a certain strength he wasn't aware she had.

"Don't leave me," she whispers, and her voice is still shaking, but this time he has a feeling it's not just from the cold. "Please don't leave. Not this time. Please."

And he doesn't.

* * *

He gives her one of his t-shirts and a pair of oversized flannel pants. She changes as quickly as she possibly can, because being _alone _just isn't an option right now. She doesn't know why she's come to _him _of all people. It's been years since they'd last talked, since they had anything resembling _closeness_.

She could've gone to her father. Maybe if she'd begged enough, pleaded enough, cried enough, he'd see she was still his daughter. Maybe he would've taken her back in. Maybe, just maybe, she could've begun again.

But no. She hadn't done that. She'd crawled to the doorstep of the man who broke her heart. She'd asked to come inside his house. Because it was _cold_. It was a stupid idea, Gabbe thought bitterly, now that the warmth of dry clothes, hot tea in an odd chipped cup, and a fire got to her. But he hadn't turned her away. He'd invited her inside, done everything he could to make her comfortable.

And she just didn't understand.

* * *

He starts the fireplace he's never used, and he gives her the thickest blanket he owns. And then he just watches her. Watches her as she watches the dancing flames, as her hair dries and she pulls herself together. He could smell the alcohol on her breath, but he adds something to the tea that sobers her up almost instantly.

He sits beside her, which is an achievement in itself, considering his leg. It bends at an odd angle when he finally manages to plop down beside her, but he doesn't wince. The warmth radiating from the fire doesn't reach him, and the cold numbs everything. "Want to tell me what you're doing here?"

Her eyes don't move from the flames, and her voice doesn't waver when she says, "Want me to leave?"

"No!" he says, maybe too loudly, but he doesn't really care. She can't leave. Not yet, not when he's finally found her. "No—I, uh, I don't."

She smiles. It's not Belle's smile. It's not sunshine and warmth and happiness. This is Gabbe's smile—bitter, twisted, angry, with just a touch of betrayal. "I was cold," she explains slowly, "So I came here."

"You were cold," he repeats stupidly.

She nods. "It's raining, you know."

"Yeah, I'm aware." It rained the night you left, too. He wants to say it, but he doesn't. He closes his eyes and remembers—the day had been perfect, absolutely clear, and only an hour after she'd left the castle, when the darkness had enshrouded his fortress of stones and magic, the storm clouds had rolled in and thunder had rumbled. He hadn't thought of it then, but he thinks about it now, as the rain turns from a soothing lullaby to a haunted melody playing just outside the walls of this house.

They don't say anything else, but they don't really have to. There's an unspoken apology hanging in the air, muffled by the sounds of the crying sky outside.

* * *

"Sometimes I think I'm crazy."

She says it, because she's not really gaining or losing anything _by _saying it. She didn't expect him to be her salvation—she doesn't expect him to be anything, really. She's a girl with nothing to lose. So what's the harm?

"Why?" he sounds genuinely curious.

She shrugs. "It's silly. I think I'm in a fairytale, sometimes. A sick, kind of screwed-up fairytale, for sure, but… I don't know. It feels like something bigger out there is waiting for me. Sometimes I close my eyes and see people differently."

He's staring at her intently now, his lips twitching upwards in the beginning of an understanding smile. But it's been so long since she's seen him smile; she doesn't expect to know everything about his body language yet. "Like how?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Like you," she begins to explain. She almost stops, but then she realizes she's got nothing to lose, and _hell_, a mental asylum would probably be better than her life now. She continues. "Like sometimes, you're not in your suits. Sometimes, you're in this weird leather and velvet outfit. Red and gold velvet and silk, and leather pants."

She nearly laughs at how _ridiculous _it sounds when it escapes her mouth. Mr. Gold. In leather pants. The mental image is enough to make her grin—really, genuinely grin. "And your skin—" she breaks away, closing her eyes and envisioning this alternate version of him. "It's an odd color. Like… gray. And your nose is a little longer, and your hair is like straw." She shrugs. "I must sound really flattering right now. Or completely bonkers. Feel free to call Storybrooke General to take the crazy chick away at any time, now."

She turns her head, half expecting to see him slowly reaching for his cell phone, ready to call the orderlies to come take her away. But he's not. He's looking right into her eyes.

Her breathing quickens. She'll deny it all she wants, try to push the flicker of feelings away, but she knows she still loves him. People called her crazy then, for loving the town menace. They said she was insane. They said she was delusional. They said she was young and she didn't know what she wanted, and he was only going to take advantage of her.

They were wrong, on all accounts. Well, maybe they were right when they said he'd hurt her, but not for the reason they thought. They were wrong, and she'd been right—her feelings were real and even after two years, they hadn't faded. And she knew his had to be, too. Why would he let her in? Why would he look at her the way he was now?

No, she _knew _he loved her. Even if he didn't know it yet, himself.

"You're not crazy," he whispers, so softly she can barely hear. "I promise you, sweetheart, you aren't crazy." His voice cracks near the end, and she wants to giggle. Not because he's crying (he's beautiful when he cries, though, she has to admit) but because of how _ironic _this whole thing is. She's the one that's broken, and he's the one who's crying.

It's quite the work of art, the image they paint.

* * *

He kisses her.

It's quick and sudden and she tenses up, and for one, horrifying moment he thinks she's going to push him away like he'd pushed her away all those years ago. But then she relaxes and she kisses back.

They're living on different sets of memories. But they parallel each other so beautifully that it really doesn't matter if their past is in a pawnshop or sitting by a spinning wheel.

All that matters is that she's here and this is now, and he might finally be making up for everything they've missed.

* * *

She can't say she isn't surprised, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy the feeling of his lips on hers, the feeling she's missed for far too long.

So she kisses him back when every ounce of her being is telling her to push him away, that this is a mistake, that he's a dangerous, dangerous man who left her broken once and will surely do it again. But she doesn't listen to that nagging little voice.

Because this is here and now. And she feels something (something like love) tugging at her heartstrings. But something else tugs at her. It's brief and it comes in flashes, but just as soon as it happens, it's gone.

And she shrugs it away.

* * *

She doesn't remember.

But that's okay.

Rumpelstiltskin had designed it that way. No one was supposed to remember until the curse was broken completely. No one but him, and the caster. The evil harpy herself, Regina. He couldn't deny his disappointment, though. He couldn't deny that he'd hoped that one way or another, Belle would remember. Belle would remember, she'd have her body back, and the poor soul that was Gabriella French could finally rest.

But she doesn't and it's okay.

She picks herself back up. Moves in with him. The whole town watches with wide eyes, but they don't say anything outright about the fallen angel that's moved in with the nefarious Mr. Gold. They can't really find the words to say.

It's not a happy ending.

It's barely even a fairy-tale.

But it's a start, and that's good enough for Gold.

* * *

**A/N: Hmm, what's to say about this? I listened to _The A Team _for the first time a few days ago, and I completely fell in love. I knew I had to write a fic to this, but I couldn't decide which couple to do it with. It was between Rumbelle, Red Cricket, and Effiemitch (THG, anyone?), but I decided on Rumbelle because to be completely honest, I'm the most comfortable with them at the moment. **

**This kind of took a life of its own by the end. I'm not unhappy with the end result, though. I felt like it kinda got thrown together, though. Then again, all my endings feel that way to me. Anyway, hope you guys liked it, and reviews and constructive criticism are always lovely (:**


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